Paused
by powertrash
Summary: Hard R; Angel/Lindsey set in S2 post-Redefinition. One-shot, non-consensual sex implied.


Notes: Hard R. Set post-Reunion. I wanted some Angel/Lindsey slash that didn't involve any sweetness. That's not how I see these boys. Reviews are cool, but please be constructive not nice. A/S implied.

* * *

The thing was, the soul didn't make Angel a nice guy. It was easier to accept the Sunnydale separatist view he had of himself, become an image, play a game. Found some sense of freedom in that recreation, disassociated himself from all of those deeds. If Angelus was different, then he had no control over those actions. Almost forgot who he used to be. Inside a little blonde girl, he forgave himself.

It wasn't that he felt bad about his actions, or at least that's not what bothered him most. He remembered the people he killed, and to some degree he mourned for them. But what got to him was the pleasure he got out of it, the pleasure he still found in the memories, the way he could lose himself in his recollections of--how did he put it, once?--the ecstasy of grief.

No, Angel was Angelus with self-loathing. A combination of everyone he had been, not Liam triumphing over and angel-faced demon. Urges that needed their chance to play, that couldn't always be completely contained. Lately, he felt it pulling around the surfaces, felt himself dancing again, letting the demon play with his enemies, get itself off on the torture, the wanting, taking and having, forgetting guilt, because he was always purer than the scum beneath him.

He smiles, silhouette framed in the doorway of Lindsey's apartment. Jeans, cheap whiskey, bare chest and feet. Reminds Angel of someone else sometimes, but this relationship had no history forcing significance into each action. Everything here was vulgar.

"In or out," Lindsey says after a while, and Angel steps in, leaving the door open, moving against the closest wall. Neither speaks, not because words are meaningless, but because they might create some, might begin to give these moments an existence they aren't supposed to have.

The first time was rape. Angel had come in, smelling of cigarettes and--strangely--motor oil. Lindsey nodded an invitation, and found himself pinned down against his bed, struggling to breathe against the pillow his face was crushed into. Blood smeared across his arms and back, bruises on his wrists, his ass, and Angel's semen running down his legs. He had screamed, cursed soundlessly, fought against the vampire's weight and been fucked down harder until he stopped moving, just clawed at the hands holding him down, making sure at least some of the blood spilled would be Angel's.

When it was over, all he could do was laugh. Pushed the hair out of his eyes, thought about the sledgehammer in the closet, and imagined smashing it into Angel, the crunch of bone and the thuds of impact. He hurt, all over, and the vampire seemed to take some pleasure in examining the bruises all over his face.

Angel had kissed him then, forcing his face up towards him, plunging his tongue into the lawyer's mouth, demon face, fangs sinking into the lips, biting, leaving no orifice untainted. And just as Lindsey found the rhythm of the kiss, sunk mindlessly into the pain, Angel laughed himself, and threw the boy away from him. Lindsey groaned.

He was powerless against all that strength, and it became a relief to give himself over to it, to allow Angel complete domination. In those moments, the fight was over, he had lost, and there was nothing to struggle against. And then the weight would be gone and Angel would leave Lindsey there, bruised and bleeding, lips curled into a sneer, rushing back to determination to destroy the vampire. The hatred consumed him, burning everything else, and only when Angel was crushing him into his mattress, fucking him raw, was he free from it. It was a reminder of his weaknesses, each bruise a declaration of the power he would never overcome.

Lindsey was just self-destructive enough to get off on it. He wanted to win, but in his struggle for control, he relished the hiatus where nothing but submission was possible.

Angel leans against the wall, the light from the hall exposing Lindsey while the vampire blends with the shadows. The moments pass, and if Lindsey wasn't so alert with anticipation, he might forget that the vampire is there. He sips his whiskey, stares at the television, which isn't turned on. Suddenly, Angel moves towards him, topping his chair over and moving to grab the boy by his wrists, dragging him into the bedroom. Lindsey twists free and slams his fists into the back of Angel's knees, causing the vampire to lose balance for just a second. Lindsey quickly punches him in the face, and Angel jerks back, his month stained with blood. But Lindsey can't stand up fast enough, and the vampire suddenly has him and hits him hard enough that his ears ring. And suddenly, Angel is pinning him to the floor, and Lindsey is writhing against him, groaning, mouth open in a scream, wanting to be taken, for some sense of closure.

Angel bites him, but doesn't drink, watches the way it flows out of the wound. He knows Lindsey wonders about this, knows makes him feel dirty, like his blood is unclean. But Angel sees something else, watches the boy submit to him so completely only to dedicate himself to the vampire's destruction once the moment is over. It fascinates him, being someone's world so completely, makes him want to destroy the humanity Lindsey has left, to bring him over into his family, to own him in every sense of the world. And he holds back, every time, just takes him as roughly as he can without breaking him, and decides it's not worth it, that Lindsey is trash, and he already has a childe for this kind of game anyway.

He eyes Lindsey's back, the bite marks and scratches, and admires the naked body struggling for breath. He turns to leave and Lindsey doesn't look up. It's a game, it's a dance. It is utterly meaningless; it amounts to nothing.


End file.
